Not-so-Divine Revelations
by syrensxng
Summary: When Anathema was 7, she had her first prophecy. They came in quick flashes of color, vibrant and wildly disorienting. Not unlike, she would reason later, the migraines that would become far too common in her early 20s. In which Anathema inherits Agnes' ability to see visions and everything shifts.


When Anathema was 7, she had her first prophecy. They came in quick flashes of color, vibrant and wildly disorienting. Not unlike, she would reason later, the migraines that would become far too common in her early 20s. Needless to say, this was all very terrifying for a little girl who'd only just learned how to ride a bike. She ignored them for a time, until they became too frequent to ignore and she ran to her mother for advice.

Rosa Device, on the other hand, knew exactly what it was. As of Agnes' 586th prophecy |In thine line there shalt be another of divinity mine|, her family had been expecting another prophet, though weaker in power than hers. Rosa's own mother had thought it to be her at first, with her intuition and habit of curiosity. And as with all things regarding her daughter she approached Anathema's prophecies eagerly. How could she not, if her daughter was destined to save the world? But the visions had thoroughly frightened Anathema, and it would be years until Rosa could convince her to even begin writing them down.

By the time she was 12, enough prophecies had run through Anathema's mind to warrant a journal. Her mother gave her a large, leather-bound one for Christmas, insisting that she would need it later. These prophecies were sharper and more detailed now, no longer crayon-drawn doodles detailing vague shapes and figures. They were still hazy, as though looking through the frosted glass of a window, but drawn beautifully in the new journal. Artistry was a talent Anathema developed slowly over the years, independently. It was one of the few things undictated by the Book. And for some time Anathema was satisfied living by its rules, accepting its prophecies as truth, doing as her mother told her.

But then she grew up. Anathema moved out of the house as soon as she graduated, and moved to America to take a Psychology degree. There had to be a reason for her hallucinations, she reasoned. Something that could explain it. But no diagnosis ever stuck, and eventually, she had to accept the reality that her mother had told her. They were prophetic. Agnes' past fortunes were too accurate to be considered chance, though far greater in detail than her own. And her own powers had been prophesied as well, had they not? It was with a heavy heart that Anathema packed her bags and moved to Lower Tadfield. Her mother was relieved, of course. She'd written Anathema's skepticism of the Book off as a phase, a brief state of rebellion.

And was Anathema bitter at the fate she'd been dealt? That despite her efforts she'd ended up exactly in the same place as prophesied, clutching a journal that laid out every major event of the next week? Of course. But what could she do about it?

Nothing, really. The apocalypse was coming, hurtling towards them at a terrifying speed. The least Anathema could do was play her part.

The sky was so blue when Anathema stepped into Lower Tadfield. It was the kind of clear, brilliant shade you'd only find on a pencil crayon. Always theoretical, never really there when you looked up. But here it was. And as Anathema stared, a gust of wind flowed through her hair, playing with it, and she had to hold down her sunhat to keep it from blowing away.

So this was the place, huh? Odd. It didn't strike her as an apocalypse sort of town, not in the slightest. But she supposed Armageddon could happen anywhere, even a quaint little place like this. Might as well get herself acquainted with her new home for at least a week (longer so, she hoped).

The townspeople, at the very least, were friendly. Most of their auras were yellow, orange or green. (Though she did spot an older man frowning at her slightly. It might have been the lesbian patch on her jacket. Anathema made a note to leave a frog in his shoe later that night.) She ran into some kids a little later riding around on their bikes. From what she could tell, they were pretending to be knights and were using sticks as swords. One had put a bucket over his head as a makeshift visor. Anathema chuckled as they sped past.

Jasmine Cottage, too, was awfully pleasant. It was plenty spacious, with plenty of room. She could do with some better furniture (these ones looked like they'd been bought by someone's grandmother) but she was hardly here for a vacation. It didn't have to be stylish, just liveable. The first thing Anathema did when she arrived was put a kettle on. God knew she'd need it for everything she had to do. She unpacked her admittedly light bags and set up the bed. With a bit of luck, she'd only have to stay here for the next week or so and then she could pack her bags and go right back to America. Find a good job, get back to school maybe. She'd be free after all of this. Maybe. But right now there was work to be done.

She brought out the Book. It was a heavy, leather bound thing with spare slips of paper folded within. The writing, if she was being honest, was a bit difficult to understand too. Over the years, her ancestors had done their best to decode its messages. It had led to much miscommunication over the years, and Anathema often found herself frustrated over even those. Worse yet, the prophecies had only extended up until a week ago, meaning she had no clue what was going to happen. Or at least, she only had her own limited vision to see it.

Anathema reached for her own book, _Anathema Device's Relatively Accurate Musings and Visions of the Apocalypse_ and began flipping through it. There. The most recent one, seen about three years ago, was of the cottages around town. In the background, the kids she'd seen were running around. One of them, face framed with blonde curly hair, was mid-stride, turning to talk to the girl in the red raincoat. There was a look of picturesque childish innocence in him, like a Renaissance painting. Like a cherubim. Anathema found herself startled with the drawing, and was just moving to close it when she noticed something else. There was a shadow in the background she didn't remember seeing in the moment, looming over the boy. She nodded resolutely. That was where she had to start. Whatever it was, being here at this time, chances were it had something to do with the apocalypse.

It wasn't that Newt didn't like paintball matches. Really, he liked them just fine. He understood that these sorts of things were supposed to be team-building exercises, meant to 'bring you closer to your teamworkers.' Still, he hadn't _meant_ to let everyone down by wandering away from the old repurposed nunnery they were supposed to meet at. (Though that wasn't necessarily true.) It was just that given his certain… lack of grace he wasn't so sure giving him a paintball gun was the best idea. It didn't help that just this morning he'd nearly caused a power outage at the office and the IT guys were bound to give him a couple shots to the back of the head for it. So he didn't feel all too guilty for ditching the event… at first. A nice drive this far out in the country was bound to do him some good anyway, he never got out of London these days. The fields rolled past in calming hills, dotted with a few sheep lazily chewing grass as he passed. How nice it must be to live out here.

But it didn't take long for things to go wayward. His GPS crashed. Newt frowned, giving it a good thump. He was used, after all, to what was known in his family as the Pulsifer Curse. Nearly everyone from his descendant line had had some sort of trouble with electronics or even just machines in general. There was, in fact, a second GPS hidden in the trunk for this kind of emergency exactly. That crashed too. Great.

He barely looked up in time to see a lizard (why was that out here?) crossing the road in front of him. Newt swerved the car suddenly, barely missing the animal. Only trouble was, now he was headed to the ditch by the side of the road. He shut his eyes and hoped for the best. There was a crunch of metal, and Newt felt his head whip forward suddenly.

Newt shook himself and wandered out of the car. Dick Turpin was completely overturned by now, smoke pouring from the front of it in thick plumes. He coughed. His glasses were broken too, he was fairly sure. Well, he thought bemusedly, at least he didn't have to go to the paintball match anymore. The last thing he saw before passing out was a woman with dark, curly hair running towards him as his vision faded to black. Had he looked just a little to the right he would've noticed a pair of human-shaped beings watching from the cover of the forest. The shorter one, bespectacled and looking far more worried than the other, he had his arm outstretched ever so slightly. His hand was glowing in the darkness, a beacon of soft light in the woods.

There were birds chirping somewhere. Newt's first thought, upon waking up, was that he wasn't in his apartment. This place, wherever it was, was far cozier than his own home. Soft light streamed in from the nearby window onto the bed, much clearer than anything that could be seen in London. And indeed, a little past the window was a natural garden, untended and overgrown with wildflowers. He blinked. It was as if he'd wandered into an old storybook, complete with fairies and everything.

"Oh good, you're awake." There was a woman at the doorway, staring at him oddly as she entered. Newt pushed himself upwards, suddenly aware of where he was. "Don't worry about the mess, by the way, you're in the guestroom."

His shoes and jacket, he noticed, were lying in an armchair a little ways away. He nodded, the pounding at the back of his head becoming suddenly apparent.

"What, uh, what happened?"

Anathema raised an eyebrow. She had a pretty sort of tenacity in her frown, Newt noted. She was studying him carefully. "You really don't remember anything, huh?" He shook his head. "Right, okay. Basically, you've crashed your car."

"I've- _what?_ Hold on, one second. Where are we? What day is it?" Newt pulled the floral patterned bedsheets off himself, moving to stand from the bed.

He didn't manage to get very far until Anathema pushed him back down. "Alright, slow down there. First of all, you've definitely got whiplash from that crash. You're in no shape to be running around for at least another week. We're in Lower Tadfield, it's about an hour away from London. Drink this." She shoved a mug of scented tea towards him insistently.

Newt gave her a questioning look.

Anathema rolled her eyes. "Relax, it's just honeyed tea. Maybe with some herbs. And a healing rune," she added. "But nothing that'll poison you." Newt nodded. He could deal with that, he supposed. "And, as for your last question, it's approximately eight days away from the apocalypse." He spit out his tea. "Hey! Watch the bed"

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"There's, uh, a lot to explain. And it'll take a lot more time than I can afford. Better take a look at this." she gave him a book, casting a glance over her shoulder as she left. "And, erm, there's a change of clothes in the bathroom by the way. Might want to freshen up."

Well. She seemed nice.


End file.
